Bad Moon Rising
by abstraction
Summary: The story of how blood and dust came to be. There is a hunter in all of us. AU: the Doctor and Rose are Vampire Hunters.


He calls himself the Doctor. Sometimes she'll laugh to herself about it, after a late night covered in blood, and dust, and he will look to her from across the motel room and smile in wonder. She thinks he must be mad to have this quest, this relentless drive, the work that leaves them sore, aching, half-dead.

She can't help but grin.

...

She's at a bar. A favorite local Irish set-up — smokey and warm, music pounding in the corners but drifting into drums and white noise the closer it gets to the bar. The lights are low and she is slowly nursing a drink, the warmth stinging the side of her mouth, only just now beginning to scab over. Her head hangs low, her hair brushing the bar, but she doesn't straighten even when she feels someone behind her. She licks her lips.

A man takes the seat next to her, making the space to her left warmer. "Bad moon rising," he says, without looking at her. She suppresses a chuckle, fingering her near-empty glass, swirling the contents half-heartedly, before raising it and draining the rest. The sound of the glass on the counter strikes something inside her. "Trouble on the way," she replies in a low voice, bemused. She isn't looking at him, but she can see his shoulders drop in her peripheral. His lips curve up, and hails the bartender.

"Another for the lady, and a whiskey for myself." He turns to her, and as she looks, a smile lights up his face. She swivels slightly in her chair to face him, her hand reaching for the fresh glass in front of her. Her lips purse, deep red, and when she begins to speak, the split in her lip becomes unmistakeable. "How could you tell?" she asks.

"Hard not to."

"Guess so. King's English, I see," she says.

"Relatively."

"Hmm."

"Interesting night."

"Is it, now?"

"Oh, yes." The man takes a deep pull from his glass. "Didn't think there'd be another of us here," he says casually. He seems genuinely curious, and she barks a small laugh. "Blimey, you're new, aren't you? Here? _Los Angeles_? We're _crawling_ with the bloody things." Her statement surprises him, and there is a short silence.

His eyebrow raises slightly, as if asking for more. She leans in, warmer than she has felt in a long time, the glow of camaraderie, and smiles up at him. "You've _no_ idea what you've just got yourself into," she half-whispers. He stares at her, stares for what seems like ages before holding his hand between them. "The Doctor," he says. She pulls back, looks down at his hand— waits a beat before clasping it with her own. "Rose," she says. Their hands drop.

"I have a feeling, Rose," he says, his voice low, "That we will be seeing more of each other."

She laughs again, her grin wider than he's seen. "Well, I certainly hope so, Doctor."

She raises her glass, and after a moment, his own glass comes up to join hers. "Cheers," they say somewhat in unison, and finish their drinks.

...

"RUN!"

Rose had been surveying the cemetery from atop an ancient mausoleum, gritty and cold, when she heard his yell. She hopes he's yelling it to his prey - but in the wake of their first meeting, she has since learned that life with the Doctor is never really as it seems. She stands, looks below to see two biters gaining on him in the distance— fast. She rolls her eyes, adjusts the crossbow on her back. "Oh, _hell_," she says to herself before jumping.

She lands hard, crouched on her feet, the thin sod doing nothing to cushion her fall. She springs up, and begins to run. She's never really seen the Doctor in trouble he couldn't get himself out of— but there have been times where she has had to step in and deliver the final blow, so to speak. The air is crisp, and her nerves are alight with adrenaline. She can feel herself grinning as her legs pump her forward, her heart pounding in her chest. It's times like these when she knows, knows with more clarity and understanding than she has had in her life, that this was what she was born for, what she was meant to be. A hunter.

When she catches up to the Doctor, he has already finished one, and is fighting the other hand-to-hand. He doesn't like guns, he told her once. She laughed and shook her head— it was an easy way to get things done. But watching him dance around the newborn nightwalker, she can't help but admire him for it. She pulls the crossbow from her back, loads it calmly as she walks forward for the perfect shot. She aims, pulls the trigger. He hadn't seen her catch up to him, and is shocked as he watches his opponent begin to gasp and then crumble to nothing. By the time she walks over to him, all that remains is dirt and dust. He turns, and stares at her.

"Rose."

"Doctor."

"I _had_ him! I was seconds away!"

"And?"

"And, and... and I," he stumbles, sighs, begins again. "Beautiful shot."

She laughs, mock-courtsies. "Why, thank you, kind sir."

"Oh, come off it. It's always a beautiful shot."

She shrugs, smiling. "If you say so."

He saunters up to her in a way that makes her choke on her own laughter. He is so good at this, she thinks, invading her personal space. The moon is bright, almost full, and though half his face remains in shadow, she feels like she can see him perfectly— each freckle, and eyelash, and the slight blooming of a bruise beneath his cheekbone. She fights against the warmth that begins glowing inside her, seeping into her veins. "Miss Tyler," he says. His hand grips her elbow softly, then trails down to find her hand. She threads her fingers through his. "That's me," she breathes. He leans in, closing the space between them— but his lips glide past hers and hover near her ear. "Why is it that you never miss?" he asks, a warm whisper against her skin.

She releases his hand, puts her arms around his neck and pulls him closer. She stands on her toes, breathes lightly on the spot below his jaw and says, "Didn't you know? I'm the Big Bad Wolf." She nips at his neck and pulls her fingers through his hair before letting him go. She turns from him, and begins making her way to the exit gate. She doesn't turn to see if he's following— he always does.

...

It had been a particularly rough night— they were both battered, tending to their wounds in a motel room, not speaking. She was sore in places she didn't think possible. She stands in front the mirror, calmly assessing the damage. The start of a yellowing bruise on her throat, a bloody ear. She lifts her shirt to see the gash in her side. The cotton sticks to her skin as the blood dries, so she carefully lifts it further, trying not to wince. She didn't think it would need stitches— generally it always looked worse than it was. For some reason, vampires were often the opposite. Her fingers graze the surrounding skin lightly— it's a rough cut from her hip to her navel. She'd have to rest for a few nights, there was no way she could go hunting anytime soon. She sighs, lets her shirt fall back in place and gathers what she needs from her supply bag. A hand grabs her wrist as she is searching for gauze. "Let me," he says. It was the first thing they had said to each other since narrowly escaping the last vamp. She just nods.

He steers her toward the bathroom. She leans against the sink, carefully lifts her shirt and pulls it all the way off. She tosses it into the shower. The Doctor has a washcloth ready, kneels before her and begins the process of cleaning. Rose stares at a broken tile on the wall, thinking of nothing at all. She hisses slightly when she feels the alcohol, and hears a soft, "Sorry." He works in silence for a time, before breaking her from her reverie. "How did you start?"

They had never talked about this. Hunters don't, generally. Most of it is too painful, and all of it is tragic. No one chooses it, they simply shoulder the role out of anger, or grief, or numbness. A sense of duty. She clears her throat, swallows hard. It takes a moment before she can begin.

"It was London," she says, voice wavering slightly. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just keeps working, his eyes focused on her wound.

"I had a normal life. Boring, really. I worked in a shop— folded clothes all day, went home to my—" she pauses, takes a breath. "My boyfriend. Mickey. But one night, I was closing shop late, had to bring somethin' down to the basement... and I saw one of the managers, Wilson— he was dead. He was lying in a doorframe, and I couldn't... There was blood—there was so much blood on him. I didn't know what to do, jus' stared at him. I was going to yell, or scream— anything. But then I saw... I saw him. Mickey, coming out the shadows."

"I was so— I was so _relieved_ it was him, you know? Nearly ran up to him, but there was somethin' off about him. Wrong. I was _scared_ and I didn't understand. But he called out to me, his voice strange, saying, _Rosie, why don't you come over— we can have ourselves a night out, chips and drinks and that_. Something inside me yelled _run_ and I figured I'd listen for once."

The Doctor breathes slowly, finishes dabbing her side with anti-bacterial. He's already laid out the gauze, and tape. But he brings his hand up, holds onto her other hip as a show of support. That she was still here, in this moment— even if the memory was beginning to feel too real. She hardly seems to notice her hand sliding over his, holding it place. He looks up to her face, and she seems so vulnerable, so small that it pains a part of him. She is staring somewhere where he cannot see— through time itself, he imagines.

"The elevator doors closed just in time. As soon as they opened I ran. Faster than I ever thought I could. I had to go home, to my Mum." Rose's breath catches, and he hurts to see her go through this again. "We lived on the Powell Estate— nothing special, but it was home. I _flew_ up those steps, like I was tryin' to outrun the Devil himself." She laughed, a short hard laugh. "But when I got there, when I opened the door— it was... she... she was... it was too late. Mickey'd gone to look for me at home, first. And Mum... she'd have let him in straight away. He was good ol' Mickey."

"I knew he'd come back. He got there, eventually, but I was ready. I had this cricket bat— I don't know why, probably one of Mum's boyfriends, but it was the only thing I thought could protect me. I'd called the police, too. _That's what the girl always forgets to do in telly_, I thought, _she never calls the bloody police_. And I wasn't about to get killed by some psycho ex-boyfriend. So I waited behind the door, and sure enough, he threw the damn thing off its hinges. I slammed the bat as hard as I could, but it just broke against his head. I thought, _well, isn't he just a massive blockhead_. I was hysterical. But it splintered, and he wasn't too happy about it. He launched at me, threw me to the ground. I pushed as hard as I could to get him off me, but he was too strong. Stronger than I thought anyone could be. But the bat... it was right by me. I grabbed it, stabbed him in the side. He yelled, rolled over. I took it out, and stabbed him again, put all my weight into it— straight through the heart I reckon, because he just disintegrated. That's about when I heard the sirens. I didn't think I could explain any of it, not really. They wouldn't have believed me. So I packed my things, and ran. Kept running."

She lets go of his hand, crosses her arms tightly, as if she's cold. He carefully tapes the gauze to her side. He stands, finally, and puts his hand against her cheek.

"Look at me."

Nothing. Not even a blink.

"Rose, _look at me_."

Her eyes are glassy. She's trying to stay calm.

"You're here," he says. "With me."

She nods. He moves closer, hugging her as gently as he can manage. Her arms are still crossed between them, but he just holds her there, in the dark light of an old motel bathroom. He doesn't know how long.

After some time, he eventually manages to get her tucked into bed, the covers in a heap on the floor, just a sheet covering her. _Too heavy_, she had said quietly. He turns out the light, moves to climb into the other bed.

"Doctor," she says.

"Yes, Rose?"

"You're the only thing I have, really."

He tries to make out her form in the darkness. He has the sudden urge to see her face, but the curtains are drawn and not even the light of the moon can aid him. He finds himself going to her, sitting on the side of her bed.

"I know," he says softly. He can almost see her now, and he brushes hair from her face. "You're all I have, too."

"You'll have to tell me about that, sometime," she says softly.

He can't manage an answer. By the time he wants to reply, she's already fast asleep.

...

It has been years. They have been through wars. More and more people are catching on to the monsters of the night. They visited London, once. She never smiled. Norway, too, and afterwards in a small, quiet moment she confessed to loving the beaches. He doesn't understand how they could have found each other, but they have. And when she laughs at him, at random in some motel room, after a night of blood and dust, he will smile to himself in wonder. And in joy.

...


End file.
